Drawing Dead
by the.garkain
Summary: A Wild Card 'cure' is announced by a mysterious foreigner with a penchant for world domination. Closer to home, a formidable killer stalks the streets of Jokertown. Backed by multi-million dollar pharmaceutical corporations, mainstream media declares Xenovirus Takis-A a danger to the ongoing survival of the human race. Nats soon force 'immunisation' upon the 'infected'.
1. Chapter 1

Mica joined the queue for the Firefly coach from Sydney to Adelaide, all his worldly possessions in his tattered backpack. At the front of the line, the ticketing lady looked at him twice before asking if he was sure, was that really where a nice boy like him wanted to go?

'Yes, Ma'am,' he said with a polite smile.

She narrowed her eyes at him. 'You one of them, then? Those infected, those—mutants?' She growled her words at him. 'That's all Adelaide's good for now. No more City of Churches, it's City of Freaks now!' she spat.

Mica's heart pounded as he snatched the ticket away rougher than he'd intended. 'You see anything freakish about me, lady?!' he managed. Mica knew there were limited outward physical signs of his mutation and he'd almost perfected the art of pretending there were none. He turned his back with more confidence than he felt, then boarded the bus to the sounds of her incoherent grunts. The curious gazes of his fellow passengers who all looked as normal as him, but could quite as easily be hiding their own secrets, followed his steps.

The bus was at near capacity for the overnight trip to Melbourne, but most people disembarked into the first flush of morning at Southern Cross station. The city was already bustling and the aroma of coffee wafted through every street. This metropolis was still mostly unchanged, still home to people unaffected by the Wild Card virus that had spread throughout the world. People who didn't want to know mutants like him. People like his family, those unaffected by the virus: Nats. Adelaide was an entirely different story.

There were only a handful of people still aboard when the bus passed through Ballarat, and after the drivers changed at Horsham, Mica was the only passenger left. He was the only one to see the illuminated billboards in the night. _Not the path you seek. Turn back and find the light:_ A message brought to you by the Takis-ANTI-league Community. And another one not even half a mile down the road, a desperate last plea by the same community who were petitioning for mandatory testing and isolation of those infected. _There_ is _life elsewhere. Call us today._ Concerned citizens spreading the words of their God, ignorant of the increasing statistics of scared young people killing themselves because of their hateful propaganda and fear mongering bullshit. The same support 'community' that his parents had contacted after he'd come out to them when he received his blood test back. The ones that had influenced his parent's views on his affliction, made him seem like a predator to his kid sister when Mica refused to attend their internment 'camp'… and his father's belligerent last words to his firstborn.

Mica turned away before his rising hatred had time to get the better of him, but the next billboard pulled his attention back. Two people, seemingly in full body makeup rivalling the best prosthetic special effects in the industry, dressed to the nines, their tops hats dipped low. Their arms were held back like a private welcoming ceremony to the best show on earth. And the words, quoted from one of his favourite superhero films, _Hellboy_ : _All us freaks have is each other._ And _, Welcome home._

Mica grinned and settled more comfortably in his seat.

In the early hours of night, almost twenty-four hours since he'd boarded, they stopped outside of a place called 'Sweeties Bakehouse' in the small country town of the unambiguously named, Bordertown, though it was almost twenty kilometres from the actual border separating Victoria from South Australia. The deli was a dimly lit weatherboard shop sporting two large wagon wheels. Here the bus keys exchanged hands once again. Fuzzy with perpetual dozing, Mica peered out of the window at the two drivers who conversed and traded satchels. Lights from the neighbouring Shell service station didn't penetrate the shadows enough to see the pair clearly beneath a gently swaying tree, but the new driver glanced up and directly at Mica. What light there was reflected from his eyes and Mica shrank back. It must have been pitch black on the bus, only the headlights and safety lights around the outside were lit up – there was no way he could have seen in, could he?

Mica sank away from the window and deeper into his seat, his eyes bleary from sporadic sleep and his mind still vague from dreams, or so he convinced himself. The new chauffeur boarded and stood glancing down the aisle at his single silent passenger. Mica feigned sleep but swore the driver's eyes gleamed red beneath his hood for only a second or two. He clutched his backpack closer to his chest and calmed his breathing. The bus rumbled into ignition and sat idling for a moment while the driver sorted himself out. Mica breathed a sigh of relief as the bus rolled down the quiet street and back onto the highway. Four hours later they reached Adelaide.

Mica hadn't slept since the drivers swapped. He watched the darkness lift and the city lights approach, his mind filled with anticipation and a dreaded fear. Would he be any more welcome here than he had been at home?

The driver was standing at the doors when Mica disembarked. His hood pulled back revealing his face to be unshaven, but otherwise unremarkable. No visible sign of mutation, but Mica knew that meant little.

He held out a perfectly regular hand out for Mica. 'Welcome,' he greeted with a warm smile. 'May you find what you're looking for.'

Mica hesitantly clutched the man's hand, thrown by his sincere welcome and the intrusion into his soul. Was he that obvious? 'Thank you,' Mica mumbled unable to find any other words. He moved off, his legs humming with the relief of activity. He could feel the man's eyes on him until he found the foyer of the bus station and finally disappeared out of sight into the restrooms. He splashed the sheen of sweat on his face with cold water and stared at his haggard reflection. No regrets.

The young lady behind the counter this time was friendly and helpful. She called him 'bloke' and told him not to take attitude from anyone, that the people around here could be aloof at times, but generally, they had good intentions. She directed him to cheap accommodation just around the corner.

'Good luck finding what you're after,' she called after him.

He stopped. 'Why do you think I'm looking for something?'

She smiled. The tattoos down her neck seemed to swirl and morph like Rorschach blots when she moved. 'We're all freaks here. All outcasts. No one comes to Adelaide these days unless they are looking for something; somewhere to call home, somewhere to fit in, someone to love, hey bloke?' She suggested. 'I hope you find what makes you happy.'

'Thanks,' he mumbled. So his journey here hadn't been original? The double doors slid open and warm air burst in drying out Mica's already tired eyes. The sun was only just on the rise and already the day promised to be a warm one.

On the corner, only a hundred metres from the bus station he found 'Sunny's', what he'd been told was the _friendliest place to stay for those with little to spare_. Tourists were up and sharing a pancake breakfast so he joined them with minimal persuasion. Although they included him, Mica was too tired to hold any conversation for long. He retired to a newly purchased bunk in a shared room and collapsed. His bones creaked and cracked in relief as he stretched for the first time in what felt like aeons. Suddenly the weight of the past week, his recent journey, and his full belly overwhelmed him. He couldn't even find the energy to make it to the shower before the need for sleep defeated him to the tune of his father's angry mantra: _Get away from my daughter. Get out of my house. Go away!_


	2. Chapter 2

'To Mica!' One of the tourists cheered him, and the rest joined in. Nats, he reminded himself.

'May the City of Freaks deflower him!' Someone else heckled.

Shots raised high, the group busted into drunken giggles and drank to the toast, slamming empty glasses on the table. Mica joined the cheer, washing away the scorching shot with one of the many premix cans of whiskey and coke the guys had been passing around. It was as if he was back home sharing a late night with friends at a backyard barbeque. For the moment, he was one of them: one of the sight-seers that could return to a normal life after holidaying with the freaks. Or so they thought.

'Stay away from the Cross Keys pub,' someone mumbled. 'Got some weird messages last night from Thommy.' The young man flicked through his phone, his brow furrowing.

'Where the fuck _is_ Thommy?!' someone else interrupted. He paused then giggled. They all looked at the speaker before cheering drunkenly, and Mica wondered what exploits they thought their missing friend had got up to.

Mica finished his drink and took his leave. The heat was potent, the alcohol heavy in his belly. He still wasn't convinced that this city was the right place for him, but filled with a fresh energy and no commitments and the alcohol he'd buffered his inhibitions with, he was feeling courageous that tonight, the night was his and he would make the most of it; tomorrow he would worry about finding a job and a place to live.

He explored the shopping strip first, crowds dwindling as the evening darkened, non-afflicted citizens and tourists, transforming into hidden obscurities and shadows. Masks became more common. These people Mica avoided.

'Excuse me?' he interrupted a young couple standing at a bus stop. 'Can you tell me where the Cross Keys pub is?'

The guy frowned brushing his partner behind him for protection. 'I think it's that way,' he nodded up the street. 'Down a side street somewhere, but—'

'Thanks,' Mica said and hurried off. He searched every alley he encountered.

Hindley Street was once the rough part of town; seedy bars, sex clubs, cheap 'massage' parlours: the place only drunks, bikers, and teen revellers dared to tread after dark. Now it had become a tourist strip. Jokers lined the streets openly selling their wares, charging tourists for photos or an intimate touch of something so unique. It was a veritable mini Las Vegas of Joker sight-seeing where anything was for sale… but that's not where Mica wanted to go.

Two scantily clad young women danced outside of a club called The Joker's Desire. Their costumes flashed under the pounding lights, tassels on their nipples bouncing to the thumping beat of music dulled only by the noise of the patrons inside. Their faces hidden beneath grotesque Halloween masks.

A burly bouncer hustled Mica. 'Whatever you're looking for buddy, come inside, you'll find all the best-looking freaks in here. Come on in, our girls will give a pretty bloke like yourself a good price, might not even charge,' he laughed. 'Come on, come in.' He held open the door but Mica hurried past.

Further down into the less populated end of the street Mica came across a weathered fluorescent logo illuminating random letters for the Cross Keys, some burnt out, others smashed. It was basement level, surrounded by a black spike-topped fence, the windows plastered with gig posters and stickers slashed through with graffiti. A recent poster from the 'Jokertown Boys' advertised a gig only a few nights ago. The five members huddled together; a tall blonde with a massive Mohawk and goatee; a heavily muscled man almost as wide as he was tall; someone leaning heavily on crutches; a dark-haired incredibly handsome guy; and another with an eye patch and small antelope horns. At home, Mica had owned a few of their CDs. He liked their blend of alternative gothic rock; he liked that, abandoned by the world, they'd found each other and formed a band. He sighed. Damn, what a welcome that would've been to catch them live!

A yellow light leaked between the gaps, and the smells of whiskey and altars wafted into the evening. Mica pushed open the gate which creaked with the sounds of a thousand horror movies. A Joker interrupted him, suddenly pushing his way out of the pub and past Mica. He hesitated, turning back to Mica, his thick-set jowls swaying low over a furry neck.

'The fuck you lookin' at Nat?! This ain't the place for you!' He shoved Mica with a three-toed paw.

Mica stood his ground. 'I ain't no Nat!' His voice quavered but he stood tall letting his chest puff, hoping to intimidate. Inside his heart hammered. It worked, the Joker backed off.

'They'll kill you in there,' he said, slamming the gate as he left.

Mica swiped at a drop of sweat that escaped down his brow, the iridescent sheen catching light from the single Stobie pole above. He quickly dried his hand on his t-shirt and pulled open the door.

Distorted punk music throbbed out of low-quality speakers and a plume of cigarette smoke embraced him as he made his way towards the bar. Figures loomed all over in the semi-lit gloom watching his every step. When he reached the small front bar he almost collapsed in relief, the sounds of more patrons coming from a beer garden out the back. The people sitting at tables and the bar were mostly loners, their mutated hands, with claws, feathers, or scales, all twisted around drinks to drown out woes and mute the creeping darkness they may have felt. Mica understood though they wouldn't have believed him. He held onto the solid wood counter and tried not to look around.

His eyes were drawn to the corner of the room, the emergency exit door. In the depth of the shadows, he felt a heavy presence he couldn't quite explain; something barely visible was taking up space in the black. A shiver crept down his spine and his flesh prickled with goosebumps. It was watching him.

Turning away from the anomaly and back towards the bar, there sat a guy who looked like Satan. His skin was a vivid red in the low light, his hands sported deadly sharp black claws, one dipped into his glass to swirl the ice melting it immediately. Two horns protruded from the skin on his forehead and a long, forked tail twitched impatiently around the legs of the bar stool. He turned bottomless black eyes to Mica just as a bartender drifted over.

'Kid, you're in the wrong place,' he said.

'No,' Mica choked back emotion. 'Finally, I'm not.'

'What's your name?'

'Mica. And I'll have rum, please. No whiskey. Spiced rum with Pepsi Max.' Mica spoke slowly, convincing himself he was just in any other ordinary bar like he'd been in a hundred times before.

Taking pity on him, Mica supposed, despite the overarching disdain he could feel from the rest of the pub, the bartender offered him a moment. 'New here?' he asked. He polished a glass, while tentacles from somewhere below the bar fetched another glass and a bottle of Sailor Jerry spiced rum. Another one came out and added ice, while yet another added premix.

It's all he needed to unfurl.

'Arrived this morning,' he said handing over a twenty-dollar note.

The bartender waved it away, placing the drink in front of him. 'This one's on me. Drink it, then be on your way. You've come and had a look at the freaks. Folks around here don't take kindly to tourists.'

'I'm not a tourist,' Mica insisted. 'I won't go. Take my money, please.'

The bartender grabbed the note with one tentacle. Surprised at the warmth of the undulating suction caps as they attached to his hand, Mica made sure to appear unfazed by what he was sure was a type of hazing: the bartender was attempting to drive him out. At least he was polite about it. Mica touched the man's tentacle, embracing it like he would a lover's. It was a strange thing, to be holding onto the warm tentacle of a man Mica finally found a sense of belonging with. He dropped the tentacle and downed his drink.

'Another please…?' He couldn't make friends. Jokers despised him because he didn't look like one of them. And what was the point? They all ended up leaving, even if you did find someone worthy. 'I had it all,' he mumbled, 'until a few weeks ago. Now, I'm vilified. Friends. Lovers. Family.'

'What happened?' The bartender asked. Mica tried to ignore him shooing away a couple of patrons who were approaching from behind him. He swallowed more of his drink to dull what was sure to come.

'It was a routine blood test. Somehow being positive for the Wild Card was worse than hearing I'd contracted an STI, or blood infection. At least most of those can be rid with pills or antibiotics. When I came out to my parents at fifteen, they supported me. They told me it would never change their love for me. Being trans is not the horror for parents it used to be. Not anymore. Turns out there's something much worse these days! They called me 'latent', said it may lay dormant forever, but also encouraged me to get my affairs in order, because the probability of death was more likely.' He waved his empty glass. 'Another please?'

Opening up to him was like feeling the poison from a festering wound finally let up and release. The words flowed freely, almost uncontrollably. 'My friends became distant and harder to contact every day. I'd been forced to leave behind everything I knew for a world I'd only been exposed to through hyped-up propaganda and hearsay. Suddenly it became my reality: Aces, Jokers. I'd heard of the unlucky ones _drawing the black queen_ , those who'd suffered and died because their body hadn't handled the transition, but I hadn't noticed my change when it finally came.'

'So, you became a Joker?' His eyebrows raised, missing the point. 'I'm hardly about to believe that.'

'That would have been something. My becoming a Deuce was taking the piss.'

Polite enough not to scoff, a touch of a grin lingered at the edge of the bartender's lips. He topped up Mica's drink and this time waved away the money.

'So, you're a Deuce; you've got some tragic power that makes you an amusing curiosity – come on, that's hard not to like. I had one dude in here yesterday that would sprout a full bodysuit of fur anytime someone sneezed. He was picking hair out of his teeth all night long.' The bartender wiped up a few random drops on the bar in front of Mica. 'What's your power? Entertain me.'

Mica growled, shaking off self-pity. He was starting to feel the effects of the alcohol burning in his belly, and high from the admissions he'd never before spoken aloud, talking to strangers and making friends was suddenly so very easy. 'All of my body fluids sparkle!' He giggled. 'And yes, I do mean all.' He raised an eyebrow suggestively. 'You can probably tell sweating gives me a very pretty shimmer.' He brushed his fingers across his forehead and presented his fingertips to the bartender as proof of his glimmer. 'That's it. Out of all the things in the world, this transformative alien virus allows me to sparkle, like I'd always dreamed. That's what I get.'

'You could have died. Was it something like seventy thousand people perished when exposed for the first time? I can't remember my history lessons but hasn't this virus been likened to Ebola: the fatality rate at about ninety percent? You could have been a statistic.'

'Yeah—'

'Back off Sal.' The bartender suddenly turned on another patron. 'He's one of us.'

'Fuck that—one of us! Pretty boy coming in here an' you sticking up for him? Uh uh, not on my watch Khrist.' Sal bundled Mica up with fat fingers sprouted thick bristly hairs. Mica tried to shrug away but his grip was too strong. The man looked like one of his parents had been a warthog, and he smelt as bad this close up. 'This is a Joker place! A place for Jokers you hear? Go away!' His top lip curled by two pairs of chipped and stained tusks.

'I ain't welcome! I get it! Fuck you!' Again, his father's mantra: _Get away from my daughter. Get out of my house. Go away!_

Mica didn't see the fist as it connected with his face but he felt the crunch of bones bending beneath. He hit the wooden floor. Before his hair absorbed too much of the stickiness, he pushed himself to his feet, half a dozen of Khrist's tentacles helping him.

'That's enough Sal.' Khrist held the Warthog Man away with his remaining tentacles and ushered Mica towards the door. 'Mica was just leaving.' And to Mica alone, he whispered, 'I'm sorry, son; this just isn't the place for you.'

Mica stumbled from the pub into the dark alley, morning still hours away. He coughed, exchanging stagnant air with the sickly-sweet odour of rot. He swiped at the fresh blood that trickled down his lip. It sheened silver in the poorly lit backstreet, and he knew the glitter would be everywhere. He glared at the sparkling mess his fractured nose left on the back of his hand, the pain irrelevant. He pulled his backpack straighter across his shoulders as a heavy shadow passed over him and he shivered, glancing around at the eerily quiet street. The shadow felt alive, and in his newfound world of the weird, it was quite possible. Whether or not it was amicable was another question. The darkness crawled down on him, claustrophobia tightening his chest and adrenaline replacing his alcohol-fuelled buzz. It was a twenty-minute walk back to the hostel from here. Twenty minutes, alone, after dark, in the heart of a city where Australia sent its freaks.

'Hey kid, got a smoke?!' A slimy hand clutched his shoulder and Mica startled. Elongated fingers wrapped around the span of his bicep. Rows of pointed teeth crowded out the man's mouth as his tongue flicked out wetting his lips. Two gills flapped on either side of his pale neck, just visible above a rolled turtleneck skivvy. The man dragged his beanie further over his eyebrowless face. He blinked sideways at Mica, waiting for a response. He smelt of fish and the deep sea.

Reigning in the panic he'd worked himself into, Mica pulled back. 'No, I'm sorry, I don't smoke.' He stumbled away, glancing hesitantly over his shoulder but the strange man stayed put.

The buildings and streets Mica had known in earlier hours became looming towers hiding unperceived enemies. He hadn't anticipated the horror of seeing Jokers up close. Sure, he'd seen them on TV, and photos, and even encountered a few from across streets, but he hadn't been prepared for the reality of interacting with living breathing people transformed into grotesque oddities. Smelling people who had more likeness to animals, trees, or fish… and those were the lucky ones. It was too much.

Mica startled as winds caused unlatched doors to creak and bang, and noises in the distance transformed into footfalls behind him. His pace quickened, his mind fending off threads of terror. Shadows mutated into shrouded figures. A massive silhouette trailed him but it melted into darkness when he turned. Before him, the street was empty and still. Anxiety built in his chest until the wave crashed and he bolted.

There was nowhere to go. A high brick wall slowed his pace; a dead end. Still moving, he searched for an exit from the madness, his head swinging, his backpack bouncing chaotically, sweat streamed down his lower back. He slammed on the brakes, his breath ripped away from him as his feet hit a dark puddle. Beyond it, a mere arm's length away, a picture of his fear personified: the eviscerated carcass of a horse lay before him, its disembowelled organs and severed head several feet away. A scream escaped him, like a blow straight to the chest.

The thick smell of viscera made him stagger backwards. The gore, how was there so much from one body? Mica clamped a hand over his mouth, biting down the bile.

On the ground, inches from the mutilated head sat a single three-foot horn. The unicorn horn lay tangled with bloodstained hair. The rumours surrounding the lead guitarist from The Jokertown Boys, Alec 'Alicorn' Harner jumped to mind. Could the murdered body be his? People had said he'd donned that tall Mohawk to cover his horn, and if anyone other than a virgin touched it he would turn into a full-sized unicorn. Only by contact with a virgin could he change back into human form again.

A shadow stepped in front of Mica, planting a foot either side of the severed head. The small, slender man stared right at him and Mica lost all restraint over his fear. Moonlight glinted off the bloodied machete, enormous in comparison to the bearer's slight frame.

Mica stared, possessed by the man's black eyes. His vision faltered and white noise filled his head as he tried, unsuccessfully, to back away.

Cold, invisible hands clamped his throat and tightened, while the white noise amplified until the only thing Mica could comprehend was static. It spoke to him. The white noise told him he had to die, that those infected with the Wild Card would all die, and he would be next. He understood, and it made sense… so he allowed it.


	3. Chapter 3

It was exactly 5.55pm when the knock came, just like every other evening before it. Shiloh didn't need to look at the clock above the sink to confirm, but she did anyway. Old habits. She sighed, sitting up and brushing herself down, her heartbeat hastening. 'Come in,' she called, somewhat giddy as if he were an expectant date. If only. The heavy bolted door at the top of the stairs slid open and she grabbed the TV remote. He'd given her a television. It was behind a shatter-proof glass panel along the far wall opposite her bed. She stared at the hole in the wall impatiently waiting for the flat screen to burst into life at her command. He liked it on Channel 9 so they could watch the news together: dinner and the daily news just like a regular family.

He came down the stairs one at a time holding two ready-made microwave meals on pale brown trays. She smiled. He got upset if she didn't smile when he came down to see her. The mask was one she'd learned to adopt long ago. His small eyes flicked to the television and then to her. Everything was correct.

He placed the meals down on the floor while he set up. In the tiny room, everything had to be rearranged for an activity. He pulled the two-seater table out from against the wall. When he wasn't there, she used it as a nightstand. She kept a book and a cup of water on it, but she'd removed these hours ago to keep it clear for exactly this purpose. Even though it was made of a light flimsy wood, he wouldn't have her moving it – that wasn't her job. She tried hard not to look at the scratch marks and indentations decorating its surface. Instead, she averted her gaze towards the door. It was shut, but he didn't lock it when he was down here. He shifted the two chairs behind the table so they were both facing the TV, and set the meals and a fresh plastic cutlery packet beside them.

Still smiling, she met his gaze. 'Dinner's ready,' he said. His smiles, like hers she supposed, didn't light up the rest of his face and only highlighted his gaunt, hollow features.

'Thank you, Adam,' she said.

He waited for her to sit in the chair closest to the bed, trapped in by him when he sat down. Her fingers brushed the plastic cutlery but she dared not touch it until the news had started. Her belly growled in anticipation: meals were some of the only things she had to look forward to.

He fetched them both a cup of water from the faucet in the room. Plastic cups. Everything had to be plastic else she might hurt herself – he was always about her protection. She couldn't have a kettle because the water got too hot. She couldn't have a refrigerator because the electrics may one day start a fire… Finally, he sat down as the familiar news introduction played. The closed captions burst to life introducing the newsreaders. Even at its loudest, the volume couldn't penetrate the room so they read subtitles instead.

Adam liked to know what was going on in the world so the news was his religion. And they were a family, so they had to endure it together. They sat through the first five minutes in silence. Shiloh watched as Adam pulled the lid from his meal and steam flooded the room with its delicious aroma. It looked like sausages, mashed potato, peas, and thick gelatinous gravy. Lovely.

She ripped her lid off while he murmured through the headlines: Three people killed in a light plane crash; Fighter pilot ejects from jet moments before explosion; Train drags car carrying injured passengers along tracks; Newborn whale dies after becoming entangled in fishing nets; Hundreds gather in Melbourne to recreate Wuthering Heights…

'I didn't know there was a Wuthering Heights day?' She attempted as the ad break came on. 'It looked nice though, all those people dressed in red and dancing, just like the song. I remember when mother used to play—'

'It's silly,' he cut her off. 'Haven't they got anything better to do? There's a war out there! What a waste of space people like that are.'

The hornets emanating from his mind overflowed into hers, but she was used to it. He tried to keep it from her but sometimes the hornets were too powerful. She touched his hand as his fingernails buried into the cheap wood of the table.

'It is silly,' she corrected. 'I don't know why I said that. I guess it just reminded me of mother. I didn't think—'

'You shouldn't think about them. They were poisoned and could have killed us both.'

'I know, Adam. I know. I don't know why—' she stopped herself as the news report came back on.

Adam returned to his meal and Shiloh pushed a sausage around in the gravy. The edge of the food was scorching hot, but the inside was only lukewarm. Besides, her hunger had disappeared. She forced it down anyway. He'd get upset otherwise. They continued in silence.

'How was your day Adam?' she asked, choking down the last of her vegetables. At least while the news was on, they were occupied with reading. Ad breaks only expanded the silence between them.

'You know I had to do it, don't you Shiloh?'

Her breath quickened – he hadn't let her mistake go. 'Yes Adam, I know.'

'They were infected with _that_ virus.'

'I know, Adam, they could have killed us. They were violent and unpredictable and you did the right thing.'

'I did.'

'I'm grateful for you Adam.'

His dark eyes searched hers, looking for a sign she meant it. For a moment, he seemed human. Her baby brother once again. She was holding him as a newborn. She was five years old and had to hold him just right, support his head, don't squeeze too hard but don't drop him, he's very fragile… A big sister protecting him from schoolyard bullies because he'd always been so much smaller than everyone else… Him sobbing into her arms when he'd discovered a dead kitten under their family home all those summers ago. This house. Had it really been that long? Now, her instinct was to hug him, but she shied away. Because of him, she wasn't sure exactly how many summers had passed since they were both children. She'd created no new memories of her own, all she had was him and this room. He'd built this whole extension from their basement – everything down here he'd made especially for her, to keep her safe. He'd long ago become something much more than her younger brother.

'I protect you Shiloh.'

She hadn't been watching so hadn't anticipated the advert.

Adam continued. 'I look after you so you won't become like them.'

'I know you do, Adam.' She almost sobbed but held herself together. He wouldn't abide tears.

'The world out there is a horrible place.'

'I—'

'It's not safe!' His fist slammed down sending a shockwave through the table. 'There are monsters walking the streets now and everybody is acting like it's normal! It's not normal, Shiloh. Something has to be done about it and I won't risk you out there. I can't.'

'I know Adam, shh, I know. It's alright.' She touched the side of his face in an attempt to calm him. The static hit her, a cyclone of angry hornets. She held onto him. 'I'm here Adam. I'm here. I appreciate you. I'm grateful that you're here to protect me.' She held his face close to hers. 'I need you,' she added.

He softened, closed his eyes, and the hornets dissipated. He pulled away and she deflated into her seat. Sometimes when he got upset, the hornets could be with her for hours. Shiloh took deep breaths and stared at the remains of her meal. She felt ill. Her head ached.

Glancing up at the TV, the headline _BREAKING NEWS! Wild Card 'Joker' cure announced for trial by local SA resident!_ jumped out at her. Adam's nails dug into the table top one again and the hornets returned full force.

'Adam, please!'

The hornets were overwhelming. She grasped at her temples and screamed. But he wouldn't hear her. Shiloh's vision faltered and the world sank away.


	4. Chapter 4

'You're bleeding…' a small voice whispered.

Talon turned his attention to the lost Deuce with the shimmering fear. He was crouched on the ground, starting up at him like a cat poised to flee. His pupils were wide, crowding out the dark chartreuse of his irises, and his skin glazed with an iridescent glitter that sparkled beautifully under the streetlights. Around him, a bloody massacre.

Talon cleared the echoes of static that lingered in his mind and stepped away from the Deuce. He wanted only the dark shadows where he could disappear and observe from safety.

'Wait, please?' The young man reached out to him.

Talon paused, and when he didn't make a move, the Deuce attempted to get to his feet, slipping over the slick, bloodied cobbled stones. Blood soaked the ground, splattered the walls around them and ran in rivulets down the alley, all seemingly collected under the Deuce. None of it was his – it didn't sparkle like the dried blood under his nose. The bloodbath indicated this murderer relished the brutality.

This time he rose carefully and backed against the wall for support before bending over to throw up. His regurgitated stomach contents were a glittery mess, laced with the alcohol he'd consumed earlier. Talon waited.

'I'm sorry.' The Deuce apologised. 'I'm a mess.' He wiped his mouth on his arm, then wiped the residual sheen on his shorts, and stared at the state of his clothes, soaked in someone else's blood. 'What should we do about Alicorn?' He remembered, turning back to Talon for direction. The colour had drained from his face and his hands trembled.

'Who?' Talon crooked his head at the Deuce.

'Alicorn, umm, Alex Harner.' He motioned to the dead Joker. 'The—' he couldn't finish. He collapsed back onto the ground, this time away from the puddles of blood and purge.

Talon could sense his heartbeat slow. Was it shock? He moved forward to help but stopped himself. His scent confused him. Usually, he could collect information on someone just by their smell. He could smell change in perspiration when someone lied, he could smell the blood on someone's hand three days after they'd struck someone. This young man's scent only raised questions. 'Did you know him?'

The Deuce nodded and then shook his head. 'I knew his band. I never got to see them... Who would do such a thing? Why do people want to kill Jokers?'

'These streets aren't safe anymore.' Talon stood awkwardly wanting to return to the shadows. 'This is not the first time.'

'Should we call the police?' he asked.

Talon shook his head. 'There is no 'police' anymore. The Jokers will find this one and take care of him.'

'Who was that man? And how—? I can't even remember what he looked like.' The Deuce looked about, his brow furrowed, close to tears. 'I can't even remember what happened? Who can fight that… and how did you?'

'I don't—remember.' Talon backed further away, the questions unhinging his small resolve to stay.

'Please don't!' He sprang to his feet. 'I mean, not now, not with… Please stay?'

'Why?' He glared at the young man who held his gaze. 'Don't I frighten you?'

He shook his head, his lips curving into an exhausted smile. 'You're the least frightening person I've come across for as long as I can remember.'

Talon watched the Deuce standing wet with a stranger's blood in a dead-end alley. His long dark hair had come loose from its tie and stuck at unflattering angles to his face and head, his arms wrapped around his chest, fingers clutching at the straps of his battered backpack. He stared at Talon. Talon knew the expressions of those who feared him far too well and this wasn't it. Perhaps with the nearby mutilated corpse, he just wasn't the scariest thing around anymore?

Tentatively Talon extended his arm to the lost one, his black malformed hand with clawed nails opened in welcome. 'We need to leave here; the Jokers will come.'

The Deuce stumbled, but clutched at the extended hand to steady himself, its size enveloping his own, accepting the invitation without hesitation. Talon pulled him close and held tight. He'd never taken someone into the shadows with him and was unsure of any side effects. But it was too late for anything else. The commotion of people stirring from the streets indicated vigilante justice was on the way. Soon they would be busted here with the corpse of a Joker. The streets were scared; they would hang anyone they could to feel safe. Either of them would make a scapegoat and it would be too late once they were considered anything else.

Talon carried the young man home. He didn't have to think about it anymore, even with an extra person; he simply dissolved into the shadows. He could bend and become them as effortlessly as breathing. Some might say he flew, but he bounced between them, flitting from shadow to shadow. Building by building, street by street, even suburbs blurred past.

Talon held the Deuce close – he was too fast and wasn't sure the damage it might cause his soft lungs or his delicate eyes. Best be safe. He didn't resist Talon's hold even if he could have. The bundle he held against his chest was warm. So very soft and fragile in his grasp. For a second, the feeling was familiar. Like he'd done this once before, back when he was human. He fought the urge to squeeze tighter – to hang onto that memory.

Finally, they reached the coastline, far away from the commotion of the city. They encountered no one on their journey, not even a stray cat.

Talon's home was a warehouse in what was once an industrial docking station. It had been used to house and quarantine boats. No one came to Adelaide en masse anymore so the boats were left rotting wherever they had been abandoned, adding fresh wreckage to the ship's graveyard of yesteryear. The jetties and docking stations were rusting and falling into the estuary, hammered each day by the tides. The warehouses surrounding the docks, along with most of the suburb, had long ago been ransacked and vandalised, home now to those who sought solitude or needed space for their newly mutated bodies. Talon was one of these few. His warehouse was secured from the bottom up, surrounded by walls of shipping containers. He'd spent weeks barricading doors and windows.

If someone found him, they were hunting him.

He released the Deuce so he could drag open the thick metal doors. The young man stood gathering his senses; his hand clutched the flaking metal railing to soothe his vertigo. The sun was beginning to rise in the distance and as if on cue, he yawned. Talon watched him; waiting for him to enter on his own terms, sure that he would come to his senses and flee while he still could.

He offered Talon a tired smile and entered the warehouse. Talon followed him, pulling the doors closed. What little light they'd had was swallowed by darkness once again. The room they entered might have been an office once upon a time. It was enclosed except the one door leading outside and into a perilous inner staircase.

Talon watched the young man in the dark. He giggled nervously, his arms wobbling about before him searching for something to hold onto. Talon studied his room trying to decide where to put him. Suddenly he felt ill-equipped to deal with visitors. His furniture was a mismatched array of what he'd collected from the side of the road and what he'd looted from neighbouring properties, not chosen for comfort or style. He didn't have much – didn't need much until today, and certainly not enough for two people. There was a table in the middle of the room and a mattress in the corner topped with bedding and clothes Talon had made into a nest when he needed to be warm. He grabbed the Deuce's wrist and pulled him to the corner. 'Sit here,' he said.

He sat, falling onto the soft mound. His hands rooted about, searching for hints at his location. 'What's your name?' he asked as he raked through the piles of soft clothing.

'Talon,' he said.

'Talon. I'm Mica. You're an Ace?' Mica's eyes searched the darkness for a place to land.

He shook his head. 'No, they call me 'Joker' when they are being kind. 'And when they aren't; 'freak', 'thing', 'monster'. I don't want to scare them, so I stay in the darkness. People can pretend not to see. I can blend. It's safer that way. Easier.'

'Easier? For who?' he asked.

Talon stepped back, instantly regretting his decision to bring this boy into his home. There was nowhere he could go. His room was all shadow.

'You speak to the shadows.' Mica continued when Talon didn't answer. 'I saw you. I felt movement as they bent to your desire. I saw you disappear into a shadow and yet you stood right in front of me, but I'm sure if I'd tried to touch you, I'd find nothing but darkness.'

'Yes.'

'I'm glad you found me,' Mica said. He smiled into the darkness and his head dropped down as he fought off fatigue. 'If I fall asleep, are you still going to be here when I wake up?'

He did not answer, wondering the same thing himself. Instead, he watched the pretty young Deuce drift into sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

When Mica woke up later, he was alone.

Broken by the occasional squawk of seabirds, the sound of lapping water was a constant yet soothing backdrop to his new environment. He remained still for a couple of minutes remembering the previous night and his new friend, but his bladder and the stench he was emanating ruined any hope he had of enjoying his new surrounds. Beams of early afternoon sunlight filtered in from a small skylight high in the ceiling but it wasn't enough to lift the gloom from the small room. It sure did heat it up though. His clothes were dried stiff and reeking. He felt like a half-rotted carcass roasting in the middle of an oven.

Without Talon, he didn't feel right remaining in his space. He found his backpack and heaved the heavy doors open. It took all he had to get them open enough far enough that he could edge out sideways. Once out, the heat hit him like a wall. Mica groaned. He was sweating by the time he made it down several staircases and it was still a long drop to the ground when the stairs ended. He sat on the edge contemplating the likelihood of his death. Holding onto the last stair, he swung his body down and dangled. He let go, bent his knees to soften the impact onto the concrete, and rolled onto his back with a grunt. Still, on the ground, he looked up. There was no way he was getting back up there on his own.

The heat bounced off the metal walls of the warehouse seeming to warp the wood around. Open water stretched before him, disappearing between pilings underneath the dock. A collapsed jetty reached out into the water where a large boat, still moored, was half sunk. It's once white visage bled through with rust and years of sun damage. The jetty was in disrepair, planks broken and collapsed into the water, others completely gone.

Mica climbed to his feet. He didn't want to go far just in case Talon returned. He traversed the jetty, jumping from broken planks and skirting around large holes. He found a ladder leading down to a pontoon and descended the precarious steps towards the water.

Under the jetty, out of the biting sun, he stripped off his outer layers and slid into the water. It was a cooling relief and a prime opportunity to soak the blood from the previous night's nightmare away.

And he waited. He waited until his freshly washed clothes dried in the sun. He waited until the sun shifted across the sky. He waited until his growling stomach couldn't stand the wait any longer. And still, Talon hadn't returned.

So, he walked.

He returned to the warehouse, staring up towards Talon's room turned home. Was he up there yet? 'Talon!?' He called before he could stop himself. There was no answer anyway.

It can't have been that far into the town centre, but certainly, longer than it had taken Talon to carry them out. By the time he approached, the sun had started its decline for the afternoon. Gradually people became more prevalent. People out walking dogs, cafes open and serving coffee, groups chatting amongst themselves… Mica dug into the depths of his backpack and found enough coins to get him a latte and a roll. Small pleasures. He sat outside and watched the people pass. It was a mixed crowd, those with mild mutations, and those without – none of them appeared bothered either way. This is how Mica had imagined things when picturing Adelaide on that bus journey out. He hoovered his chicken, lettuce and mayo on rye and sipped his coffee as this new world bustled around him. Only the niggling desire for Talon burst his bubble of contentment. Where was he?

A crowd started to assemble outside a Cash Converters, a still open relic of the way things once were. Mica studied them. There were Nats pressed against Jokers without a care. Was it just the city where the divide was so obvious? Out here in the Port, people just got along? On the TV that held everyone's attention, a reporter with long blonde hair that didn't move as she did spoke to the camera. Mica joined the crowd. On the screen, a news banner announced the release of a Joker cure.

Mica's jaw dropped. A cure? He bustled closer to the window display as the folks around him murmured. Hadn't there been cures before, and they'd never worked? Or bogus 'cures' that caused just as much havoc as the original virus? Could this one be for real?

A girl beside him touched a hyper colour hand against the window. Where her palm pressed against the glass her flesh turned a fluorescent yellow, gradually fading back into the regular forest green of her skin. 'They've got a cure?' She was young, perhaps just out of adolescence, her voice filled with all the hope forming in Mica's chest. She busted him staring and her face flushed the same bright yellow before she fell back, disappearing into the crowd.

'I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—' He cursed himself but she was gone.

'My name is Jessica Collins,' the reporter snatched his attention back. 'We're live here at MedTech Industries with local Adelaide resident Ralph Hillemann, former CSIRO researcher and scientist. With his ground-breaking new discovery, first seen here on Channel 9 News, Ralph has become the saviour of his hometown population.'

The camera pulled wide as the reporter turned to a clean-cut young man, thick horn-rimmed glasses and a manicured moustache. 'I think 'saviour' is a bit strong Jessica.' He guffawed nervously. 'The prevalence of Jokers and Aces has been growing because of those who were yet unaware of their status or those who show no signs. Locals, Peter 'Repeat' Aaron and Courtney 'Evergreen' McNeil are popular now, but not everyone is so fortunate. I would like to provide an option for those afflicted.'

'How did you make this discovery, and are you aware just how important this is going to be for the people of Australia, around the world even? I mean, when the Wildcard virus hit New York in 1946, ninety percent of those affected died. This is huge, Dr Hillemann.'

'Extensive research has proven the virus is not contagious and suggests it's more likely to be spread through genetic transmission than direct contact with original microbes, so we've been exploring the DNA of those afflicted since it found its way through our quarantine zones, Jessica. Formula 237 has been successful in all laboratory tests and I have a dedicated team of scientists—'

Behind him, there was a whoosh of exploding glass and Mica cowered, covering his head. But it was happening on the screen, not in the crowd. Everything was out of focus, the camera on its side zooming in and out of shattered glass. The journalist screamed.

'What the hell?' said someone beside him and the crowd shuffled with excitement at the developing story. The camera was dragged back and shaky vision revealed a slight man dressed in black stepping into the lab. Static blasted through the speakers and the crowd gasped, the first few rows stepping away from the screen and clutching their ears. The on-screen screaming stopped short. The silence was even more terrifying.

The man in black grabbed Dr Hillemann and pulled him to his feet. He was limp in the intruder's arms. If it wasn't so terrifying it would have looked ridiculous. How could a small man command such strength?

'Create a cure, will you? How dare you insult me?! Who do you think you are?' The man's mouth wasn't moving but the static around them formed words. Mica couldn't tell how he heard the words but he was sure everyone around him heard the same thing.

Dr Hillemann looked dazed, half there. He wasn't doing anything to protect himself, even as the man pulled out a huge machete.

The camera jumped away from the action and the crowd shuffled impatiently. Someone cursed. Others gasped. Some moved off not wanting to witness anything they couldn't un-see. Mica couldn't drag himself away from the footage. The cameraman wavered. There was someone else in the room. A familiar shadow flittered over the screen and Mica's heart stopped. Talon.

'No!' He pushed away the few people that were standing closer to the screen and pressed against the glass. 'Oh, please, no.'

'Back off!' Someone else pulled him back.

'We all want to see!' Someone growled.

Mica settled, deflated, into the crowd again. What could he do but watch?

The cameraman attempted to track the fight. It was like watching the worst 'found footage' movie ever. Mica's heart leapt every time a shadow crossed the camera, but the blurs were hard to distinguish.

'Jack, are you getting this?!' A hysterical voice pierced through the wavering static.

'Yeah, yeah, Jessica!' Came the gruff response.

The camera rose and steadied somewhat. It was sheltered behind a workbench, half the vision obscured with white laminate, the other half attempting to track two men in furious battle.

'Is it a Joker?' Jessica said. 'Fighting an Ace! Is he crazy?'

Mica held his breath. He couldn't work out the images. What was going on? His vision blurred. He fought the possibility that he was about to witness losing the one person he believed was meant for him. Fate. Whatever.

The small man fled as the shadow transformed. Talon. He stared at the camera, his black eyes intense, menacing wolfish features coming out of the darkness. He growled. Then, just like that, he was gone too.

The camera returned to Jessica. Her blue eyes wild. A few shards of glass must have struck her on the face because blood smeared her cheek. Her hair, still immaculate. 'Where's Ralph?'

She stood up and approached a fallen figure slumped across a benchtop. As the camera followed her approach, she adjusted the hem of her skirt. 'Ralph?' She looked back at the cameraman. 'Jack, call an ambulance!'

The footage cut and returned to the studio where two news readers stared at the camera, taking long moments to compose themselves. 'Umm,' the man stumbled. 'We'll take a break before we check back in with Jessica. Stay with us on 9 News.'

As the commercials started the crowd erupted with activity, everyone talking at once, some scared, some elated. Mica watched them all. What would a cure mean to them? The young girl with the hyper colour skin – was she in school? Could she be? Perhaps she'd had dreams of being a doctor? A lawyer? What would it mean to her to be transformed again?

What would it mean to Talon? Would he want the cure? Did he? Could they leave here, go somewhere 'normal', be normal? Mica's thoughts whirled.

When the news returned to the story, Dr Hildemann was being loaded into an ambulance. The reporter stood at his side. 'This is Jessica Collins from 9 News. We're here at MedTech Industries where we've just been attacked by two Wild Cards. Ralph Hillemann, creator of the newly announced cure is okay. Surely we need to question whether the cure should be mandatory? These people, as we've just witnessed, are violent, they're unpredictable. Ralph, in the wake of all this destruction in the Wild Card community, it's obvious someone is upset about your new discovery. Do you have anything to say about your cure?'

He was lost, his eyes wide in terror, but he gained composure under her fierce gaze. 'I do Jessica, I do. I just want to let you all know that it's here. We've tested this cure and I can confirm that it works. Don't be afraid. I will start to distribute free samples to all major pharmacies. You don't need a script, you don't need a reason why just go in and ask. Things can go back to the way they were. Trust me. It's safe.'

'There you have it,' she stared down the camera. 'Back to the studio.'

Mica withdrew, getting lost in the crowd of people. He was alright. He was okay. Talon wasn't dead. He was fine. He'd survived the encounter. Talon was alright. Talon was okay.

Mica inhaled and tried to release the bad feelings with his exhale. He pushed his way out of the still gathering crowd – there had to be a hundred people at least – to the very fringes across the main street where abandoned shop fronts were overrun with ivy. He needed space. He collapsed against the door of an old record store left to gather dirt and graffiti.

A shadow crept over the street and chills ran down Mica's neck. No one else noticed, but Mica's head snapped up. He jumped to his feet. 'Talon?!' he asked the shadows.

'Why aren't you afraid?' the shadows asked back, sounding exhausted.

Mica beamed, unable to control his excitement. 'Those black eyes, terrifying,' he said as he found his new friend in the darkness. 'Your skin as liquid—' He brushed a daring hand over Talon's arm. 'As if I could reach in and touch the abyss Nietzsche warned us about… Absolutely stunning.' Mica curled in close to hug the shadow-come-man-creature. He felt Talon's hard muscles stiffen at the touch but he didn't flee. Mica had no doubt that if he wanted to, he could melt into nothing and leave him embracing only shadow. He didn't. 'Are you okay?' he asked into Talon's chest.

'I—Yes.'

'Thank you for protecting the man with the cure. This means so much to so many people. We need to help him, we should protect him. Do you think they might attack him again?'

'I don't know.'

Mica felt one of Talon's arms come around him. He closed his eyes.


End file.
